"What smells so good?"
Lisa wrapped her arms around my waist from behind and rose on her toes to kiss my cheek.
I flipped a slice of golden toast with the spatula. My secret to the perfect toast was simple: always use the fat left after baking bacon in the oven. Once the wrinkled strips were crisp and dry on paper towels, I poured the rendered grease from the tray into a pan and fried the bread on it until it turned perfectly crunchy.
"You'll find out soon enough," I murmured, leaning my head against hers. As always, she jerked away in panic and hurried to smooth her hair.
"I just fixed it!" she protested, though I could hear the playful tone beneath her mock annoyance.
I laughed and kept my eyes on the stove—no use burning breakfast.
"Take a seat. I'll bring it in a minute."
Instead of listening, Lisa slipped back behind the kitchen island and began opening the overhead cabinets one after another.
"What's breakfast without good coffee?" she declared triumphantly when she finally found two cups and set them on the counter. Then she disappeared down the hall. From a distance, I could hear her muttering under her breath as bags rustled.
"What are you looking for?" I called out.
"The Aeropress, the grinder, the digital scale, and that bag of beans from Colombia. I went all the way across town for them before this trip, and now they've vanished."
"Maybe we left an extra bag in the car?" I craned my neck to glance out the window, but there was no sign of Lisa's car near the gravel driveway. Damn. Had she driven it to the main building while I was asleep? The thought of her walking back alone in the dark sent a chill through me.
"Found it!" Lisa's voice was bright again as she returned to the kitchen, proudly holding the bag with all her coffee gear. She took her place beside me and began measuring out beans on the scale.
"Why didn't you wake me last night?" I asked, my tone shifting to something serious. "We could've moved the car together."
I was ready to go through the same old argument—that even outside the city, danger wasn't some urban myth. My mind flashed to that night months ago: Lisa sitting on the ottoman by the door, her white faux-fur jacket spattered with something dark and sticky. She'd insisted it was paint, but that metallic, salty scent had burned itself into my memory. No matter how many times she tried to downplay it, I knew exactly what the stranger had thrown at her. And I still hated myself for not being there.
"You looked so peaceful," she said softly, her eyes full of tenderness. I couldn't stay angry at her after that.
The grinder buzzed to life, drowning her words, and I turned my attention back to the stove.
"Damn it," I muttered, realizing too late that the bread was burning. I instinctively reached for it with my fingers and immediately hissed, "Ow!"
The grinder fell silent.
"Are you okay?" Lisa's voice was sharp with concern. I shook my head quickly—more out of embarrassment than pain—though the burn still stung. I pressed my finger to my lips to cool it. Lisa watched the motion, and the look she gave me—hungry, intimate—stole the breath from my chest.
Focus, Mark. Toast. Breakfast.
"How do you like it here in the evenings?" I asked, desperate for a distraction.
"It's quiet," she said with a small shrug, tamping the freshly ground coffee into the Aeropress. "Too quiet, after the city. I still can't believe we managed to book the last cabin here. It feels like there's no one around at all. Though, when I parked the car, someone was playing music at the main building."
"Oh yeah? A party?" I chuckled, picturing the gray-haired manager raving under disco lights while the mounted deer heads pulsed to techno.
"Well, more like a ball from the late nineteenth century," she teased. "Someone was playing classical music. Not exactly a virtuoso, but… the others seemed to enjoy it."
"And you were complaining yesterday that we danced without music," I said, smirking. Lisa burst out laughing.
"Your toast is burning," she said, nodding toward the pan.
This time, it was my turn to groan under my breath.
When the coffee was ready, Lisa poured the steaming brew into our mugs and carried them to the table. She didn't return to the kitchen island. Instead, she sat with her back to the window and opened her laptop, which gave me the perfect opportunity to make breakfast look—well, at least fun.
From two fried eggs and a few crisp strips of bacon, I arranged a ridiculous little face on her plate—big "ears" made of toast triangles and a wide, toothy grin drawn in ketchup. It looked absurd, messy, and delightfully stupid—exactly the effect I was going for.
I didn't bother getting creative with my own plate. I just piled everything together and joined her at the table.
Lisa was frowning at her screen when I came up behind her. I set the plate down in front of her and turned it so that my egg-eyed monster smiled right at her.
"Ta-da!" I announced cheerfully.
For some reason, she lowered her gaze, almost guiltily.
"You don't like it?" I asked.
"No, no," she said quickly. "Sorry. I'm just… not fully awake yet."
I paused, studying her. There was tension in her shoulders, the kind that doesn't come from morning grogginess.
"Did your editor send you something?" I guessed.
She shook her head and raised a hand to her lips, eyes still fixed on the screen. I glanced over—she had a document open, the beginning of a new novel. At the bottom corner, the page count already showed double digits.
"Wow," I said. "You wrote all that last night?"
"I think so." Her voice was barely a whisper, and if anything, she seemed even more uneasy.
I slid into the chair beside her, freeing up space, and reached for my mug of coffee.
"At this rate, you'll finish the whole book before we even leave," I said with a grin.
I took a sip—and immediately hissed in pain as the hot liquid burned my tongue.
Lisa's head snapped toward me, eyes wide, as though I'd done something unbelievable.
What was going on with her? Ten minutes ago, she'd been playful, teasing, alive—and now she looked like a shadow of herself. The mood swings worried me, especially the way she would suddenly go quiet, withdrawing completely.
I knew the deadline for her next novel was weighing on her. And after the funeral, she hadn't spoken much about her father at all. Not that she'd ever been open about her family, but I'd hoped that as we grew closer, she'd start letting me in. Instead, the wall between us seemed to grow thicker, higher.
My therapist once told me that everyone grieves differently, and maybe Lisa just needed time. I wanted to give her that—but every time she pulled away, I couldn't help but feel I was losing her, piece by piece.
I turned back to breakfast before it went cold. Picking up a strip of bacon, I crumbled it between my fingers. The brittle texture broke into small, fragrant shards, which I sprinkled over the sunny yolks. Then, instead of a fork, I took a golden slice of toast and pressed the corner into the egg, spreading the yolk across the whites before tearing off bite-sized pieces with the crusted edge.
The first bite melted on my tongue.
God, it was good.
When only a few bites were left on my plate, I noticed that Lisa still hadn't touched her food and couldn't help but chuckle.
"What's wrong?"
Lisa blinked, her gaze darting between me and her laptop as if she'd only just remembered I was there.
"Huh? Oh—right. No, nothing's wrong. It's just… a complicated part in the book. I've been thinking a lot."
"Got it," I said, finishing the rest of my coffee in one gulp. I knew that tone — I could pry all morning and still get nowhere until she decided to talk. "You want to work in the library today? I've got a therapy session in an hour."
"Yeah, sure. I'll get ready." She closed the laptop and stared down at her breakfast. Reluctantly, she picked up her fork and dragged the tip through the ketchup smile I'd drawn earlier.
"I thought you were taking a break from therapy while we were on vacation."
"I forgot to cancel the last session," I admitted with a guilty smile, spreading my hands in a helpless gesture. "Meant to text my therapist after we got here, but… well, that didn't happen."
"Maybe that's for the best," Lisa said, resting her chin in one hand. With the other, she cut off a small piece of egg and placed it in her mouth, chewing slowly, without enthusiasm. "New place, new reasons to feel anxious. Who knows? Maybe you should keep—"
"I'm fine," I cut in, trying to sound confident—mostly to convince myself. "The therapist thinks I'm already in remission. I just need the occasional check-in, if that."
Lisa gathered her laptop to her chest as she rose from the table. Coming closer, she caught a loose strand of my hair and tucked it neatly behind my ear.
"If you keep forgetting to tie it up before eating, you'll end up with grease all over you," she teased softly, then leaned down and brushed her lips against my cheek. "It's gotten so long."
Her face was close enough for me to feel her breath against my skin. I froze. She'd forgotten her lenses today. Two unnaturally red eyes gazed at me with quiet tenderness, and all I could think about was how they still unsettled me every time. There was something otherworldly in their color, something that defied normality.
But this was Lisa.
My gentle, fragile Lisa.
"Your hair suits you," she said after a pause.
"I was actually thinking of growing it longer," I replied, trying to keep things light.
She wrinkled her nose in mock disapproval.
"Maybe don't. I don't trust men whose hair is longer than mine."
With a playful flick, she tossed the edge of her snow-white bob and laughed.
"Then maybe you should grow yours out," I said, grinning.
"No, thank you," she shot back quickly, already walking away. "Too much trouble. You'll see for yourself once yours gets longer."
***
While Lisa was getting ready, I decided to unpack our things. By the time the clothes were neatly folded into the wardrobe and all the electronics were connected in their proper places around our temporary home, she appeared in the hallway wearing a light summer dress with thin straps, a denim jacket slung over her arm, and a canvas bag over her shoulder. I knew without looking what was inside — her writing essentials: laptop, charger, notebook, and all the little things a novelist needs to build new worlds.
I went to kiss her goodbye, as I always did. The kiss lasted longer than I expected — deeper, more desperate than the short separation warranted. A vile, gnawing sense of something inevitable and wrong took root in my chest, constricting it. I didn't want to let her go, not even for an hour, but I couldn't say that out loud. One of us had to remain the functional adult. If I stopped pretending my anxiety was gone, I'd leave Lisa alone to wrestle with her grief and trauma when she needed my steadiness the most.
"I'll come by the library around noon," I promised, calling after her to have a good writing day. When the door closed behind her, I finally let go of the cheerful mask — the one worn by the easygoing guy who laughed too loudly and pretended nothing could touch him.
I drew the curtains shut, dimming the room, then sank onto the couch and tilted my head back against the cushion, waiting in silence for the alarm on my phone to chime ten minutes before my therapy session. I needed that time — to gather myself, to peel away the layers of practiced composure one by one, until only the real Mark remained underneath.
The Mark who had little in common with the version he showed the world.
The Mark haunted by his own imagination, whose heart raced for no reason, whose mind filled with flashes of red and violence, reel after reel, like an old filmstrip spinning out of control.